Holt stared at me for three seconds, gun still, then backed to the command vehicle.
Ten seconds.
A distorted yell came through his headset—audible five meters away, words unclear.
He came back pale, rifle pointed down, tactical scope in hand.
“All units—secure weapons.”
No one moved.
“I said—secure them!!”
Voice breaking, neck veins bulging.
One by one, guns lowered.
A young agent still held his, slapped down by a veteran beside him.
Holt stepped up to me, at attention, voice trembling.
“Sir. We received reports of an armed assault with automatic weapons. I didn’t know it was you—”
“Who called it in?” I snapped.
Rex’s legs went weak.
Holt crossed in three steps, kicked him in the knee, and cuffed him behind his back.
Click. Handcuffs locked crisply.
“False report of terror,
